Blessings
by sunstarunicorn
Summary: Greg Parker just came home with bullet wounds, frightening both of his charges. As the long night ticks by, Greg realizes just how close he came to an even worse fate in the Netherworld. Sometimes, blessings come in raindrops and miracles are hidden by inches and seconds. 21st in the It's a Magical Flashpoint series.


Author note: spoilers for 03x03: Follow the Leader. End of the episode, so yes, spoilers. And I am using dialogue from the episode. This story is the twenty-first in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Be Strong and Very Courageous".

Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_. Nor do I own Laura Story's song 'Blessings'.

* * *

Home at last. Greg leaned against the closed door, finally letting the mask drop. His back felt like he'd been punched…by a guy at least twice as big as Wordy…and his arm burned and throbbed, alternating with each heartbeat. He'd sucked up the pain, done his job, and kept the peace, but now, in private, he allowed a few quiet hisses and even softer colorful words.

"What happened?" A high, worried voice; Greg froze…hadn't his team let the kids know? Or had they, like him, gotten wrapped up in the case, in stopping the bombing.

"Hey there, sweetheart," Greg tried, pushing himself upright again and straining to pull his mask of 'everything's fine' back on.

Judging by the twin unimpressed expressions – Lance appeared behind Alanna as their uncle spoke – he needn't have bothered…they'd already seen him slump in pain. Lance, who seemed to be getting taller by the day, swooped over, inspecting his uncle's shoulder as best he could.

"Did you get shot?" Fear and indignation mixed on the last word, Lance's voice breaking as only a teenage boy's voice could.

Greg gave in and gave his _nipotes_ a simple nod; not bothering to hide his exhaustion and pain anymore, he also let himself lean against the door again. The siblings communicated with a single trade of looks. Lance shifted around to Greg's good left arm and supported him from the apartment door to his bed; Alanna disappeared toward the bathroom and a well-stocked first aid kit. Before Greg could get his bearings together, he'd been deposited on his bed, his boots had been removed, and Alanna had returned with painkillers and a glass of water.

The water and painkillers were very welcome, though the sudden appearance of the kids' sleeping bags was less welcome. Greg, at the identical pleading looks, didn't argue, though. Yes, they could see he was fine, but he'd also, inadvertently, scared them – quite badly at that.

 _We pray for blessings,  
We pray for peace  
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep  
We pray for healing, for prosperity  
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering  
And all the while, You hear each spoken need  
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things_

With the lingering pain and the two teens snuggled as close to his bed as they could manage, Greg didn't get much sleep that night. When exhaustion finally won the battle and the kids dropped off, he found himself watching them sleep. A thought nudged at him, pointing out how _different_ this scene might have been…if they'd never come, never lost their parents.

Greg could almost _see_ himself coming home, to an empty apartment, tending to his own hurts before falling into bed…the loneliness of that scene was an almost physical blow. And yet, in that imagined 'what if' scenario, he wouldn't have known any different, would have accepted it as just one more part of the job.

All over again, Greg thanked his very distant and late cousin for choosing _him_ , of all people, to raise these two kids. The Sergeant wondered, a touch wry, if his cousin would have still picked him if he'd known Greg would lose his own family within two years of their one and only meeting. Alanna stirred briefly, her face twisting in what had to be a nightmare, and Greg dropped his good hand down to rub her back until she calmed again.

 _'Cause what if your blessings come through rain drops  
What if Your healing comes through tears  
What if a thousand sleepless nights  
Are what it takes to know You're near  
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise_

A nasty voice at the back of Greg's mind pointed out that the kids had brought along their own load of trouble…and an entire world that he and his team would never fit into, not entirely. In the darkness of his bedroom, Greg didn't bother to hold back the eyeroll at _that_ ; he'd known inside of an hour that the kids would need help and support…he'd never baulked at the burden that put on his own shoulders.

Still, he considered if he would have made any different decisions if he'd known the future. His own words to Wordy came to mind; he chuckled to himself and 'threw' that little tidbit at the nasty voice: he wouldn't change a _thing_ because that would change _everything_. It hadn't been perfect, far from it, but the good far outweighed the bad.

Everything, _everything_ that had happened since they'd come was worth it, was worth the sweat, the nightmares, the screaming, the tears, all of it. Looking back at his life before they'd come…he hadn't had a _bad_ life, but it had been so…gray. The two kids brought color with them, magic too, but color that Greg himself had forgotten. The things he'd done since they'd come…the adventures…even the water parks he'd talked them into – the first time anyway. A wry grin touched his face at the memory of Lance tricking Alanna into standing right under a giant water bucket, just as it tipped.

 _We pray for wisdom,  
Your voice to hear  
We cry in anger when we cannot feel You near  
We doubt Your goodness, we doubt Your love  
As if every promise from Your word is not enough  
And all the while, You hear each desperate plea  
And long that we'd have faith to believe_

As the minutes ticked by, Greg shifted enough to ease his arm's latest bout of throbbing, nabbing the pain pills Alanna had left within arm's reach on the bedside table. The movement brought him close to a picture the two had given him the previous Christmas: a beach with a setting sun, footprints in the sand, and the classic poem by Mary Stevenson. Tucked in the picture frame was the letter both had written, their distinctive handwriting mixing all over the page, the page itself written with the fountain ink pens the pair favored.

Greg wasn't sure he believed the idea behind the beautifully haunting poem, but he'd never even _considered_ saying that to the kids. After decades as a cop, the idea that there was a loving, just God who cared about each individual life was a bit much to swallow.

A moonbeam fell through his window as he washed the pain pills down with water, illuminating the room enough for Greg to get a good look at the other picture on the bedside table: a lion, standing proudly at the top of a set of steps, his eyes, even in just the picture, deep and unfathomable. He looked like the Lion Greg had seen ever so briefly in the Netherworld.

 _'Cause what if Your blessings come through rain drops  
What if Your healing comes through tears  
What if a thousand sleepless nights  
Are what it takes to know You're near  
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise_

The Netherworld. Greg wasn't sure the day would _ever_ come that the mere thought of the place wasn't enough to send shudders up his spine. Trapped, alone, with the sole, stubborn hope that his team would find him, _somehow_ , that they'd _somehow_ come to save him. Hope was all he'd had…and when Morgana crushed it with her gloat…he'd come within a whisker of a fate worse than death.

It was ironic…almost miraculous, now that he thought about it, that his team and his kids _had_ shown up in the nick of time, that they'd appeared before Morgana and Tolay could finish the job. Greg had never asked what they'd gone through to find him; he hadn't been sure – and still wasn't – if he could _take_ knowing what they'd risked.

 _When friends betray us  
When darkness seems to win  
We know that pain reminds this heart  
That this is not, this is not our home  
It's not our home_

But that risk, that miracle, might have come to nothing if the kids hadn't pulled that one last trick…or _had_ it been a trick? One name and that had been it; Tolay had crumbled, Morgana had been defeated by a Lion, and they'd been safe before Greg could blink.

Seconds…he'd been seconds from that fate…and a miracle had saved him. A shiver worked its way up Greg's back. Just like today; the one bullet had been inches from the back of his head…but it had hit him in the back, in the vest…he'd walked away with an injured arm and not much more.

Was it just chance? Or had the odds been so _against_ him surviving that his very survival went beyond chance and straight into miracle? Greg wasn't sure which answer was right…or even which answer he _wanted_ to be right. If it was chance, just chance, it felt empty, hollow. But… _but_ …if it _wasn't_ chance, if it was a miracle, it meant something or Someone was looking out for him, for his kids and his team. And, in Greg's experience, usually if someone did something for you, they wanted something from you in return. What did _he_ have to offer Someone who worked in the space between inches and seconds?

 _'Cause what if Your blessings come through rain drops  
What if Your healing comes through tears  
And what if a thousand sleepless nights  
Are what it takes to know You're near  
What if my greatest disappointments  
Or the aching of this life  
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy  
What if trials of this life  
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights  
Are Your mercies in disguise_

 _I'm the one supposed to take the hits._ That was what Wordy'd said, while they were hiding from the shooter who'd nailed Greg in his back and arm. But Greg realized, as the first hints of dawn shone through the window, that he couldn't agree. Yes, his arm hurt, still burned and throbbed; his back ached too. He was likely to hurt for the next week or so, not to mention the good-natured teasing. And yet…because he'd been hurt, he'd gotten to see his kids from an entirely new point of view; he'd seen them assess his injury, decide on a course of action, and get the 'job' done, no muss, no fuss.

More than that, Greg's sleepless night had given him an opportunity to count his blessings…and he was blessed indeed. Out of a storm of grief, murder, and arson, he'd gotten two kids he wouldn't trade for the world. Faced with all the horrors Tolay and Morgana had planned for him, his team, his kids, and a Lion had come to his rescue, pulling him back from the edge. And, instead of a bullet to the head, he'd walked away with what amounted to a nasty scratch and a few bad nights, no more.

Greg looked over at his bedside table again, noting the two picture frames and their contents again. Maybe… _maybe_ …they weren't so far-fetched after all… And maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk to ask for help. To his surprise, the idea didn't feel wrong, as it had over a decade earlier when he'd prayed, desperately, for Someone to save his marriage and bring his family back. Afterwards, he'd promised himself he'd never pray like that again…not to Someone who wouldn't answer and didn't care.

 _I don't know if I believe in You…not yet anyway. But if You're there…keep looking out for my team and my kids? Please? I don't think I can do this without them anymore…I don't think I_ want _to do this without them. Whatever happens, just…look out for them…that's all I want anymore._ Greg hesitated…did he dare? _And, please, look out for my son, Dean, too. I don't know if I'll ever get the chance to see him again, but keep him safe._ He wanted to ask for more, to see Dean again, but his courage failed at that part. Only his heart whispered that prayer…and even his heart didn't dare ask for more.

The sun, just peeking over the horizon, sent its first rays of light through Greg's window; they landed on the bedside table, lighting up both pictures. The footsteps in the sand glittered just a little, drawing Greg's eyes to the poem again. In the other picture, the Lion, proud and free, seemed, in that moment, to nod His approval.

 _~Fin_

* * *

Author's Note: I imagine most of you figured out which poem the kids found so haunting and beautiful, but, for those who didn't, the poem by Mary Stevenson is called _Footprints in the Sand_. For many, many years it was by Anonymous or Author Unknown, but, after a long process, Mary Stevenson was able to prove it was her original work and finally claimed credit 48 years after writing this classic poem.

Now, since this is just an itsy, bitsy, oneshot, we'll be kicking off "Bad Cop, Good Cop" on Friday, January 27th, 2018, right here in the main _Flashpoint_ archive.

Hope you enjoyed and please read and review. *big, pleading puppy eyes*


End file.
